


Townsend Solitaire

by Hedwig_Dordt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Character, Derek Needs Therapy, Gen, Therapy, demi!derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig_Dordt/pseuds/Hedwig_Dordt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ETA: I've been informed that the definition doesn't really fit, so I've altered it, and edited the tags</p><p>I’ve always though Derek as biromantic demisexual is an interesting possible reading of the canon. So I figured I should write a bit of fic wherein Derek starts seeing a therapist, reads a book and flirts with a barista, and comes to terms with being ace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Townsend Solitaire

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: I am not a therapist, the he tests described in this fic are fictional. However, if you’re struggling, I really recommend you do find a therapist you trust. I am personally not ace.
> 
> Townsend’s Solitaire is a Californian bird. Skinner is a famous psychologist.
> 
> US'picked and beta'ed by my wonderful friend Fightyourdragon

In the end, it’s the sheriff who pushes him to do something, and Mr. Stilinski probably didn’t even mean for him to overhear his muttered observation: “If he’d only see a therapist to deal with his issues, I’d hire him as a deputy in a heartbeat.”

But Derek heard it, and as he drives back to the loft he thinks it over. When he puts the key into the lock, he makes the decision. He kicks off his shoes and toes off his socks and takes out his phone to call Satomi to ask if she knows any were-friendly therapists in the area, before he loses his courage. She gives him two. He calls the first number and leaves a message at the answering machine. With the second name he tries, someone picks up the phone.

“Doctor Skinner’s office, this is Michele.” The lady sounds professional and friendly.

“Derek Hale. I’m calling to make an appointment, maybe?”

“Are you already a client of doctor Skinner?”

“No. That’s… I have problems… well sort of. And I figured I should talk about them. To a professional, you know.”

“Of course. Are you familiar with the procedure?”

“Ehm, could you talk me through it?”

“Of course. We ask new clients to come by and take a few tests on a computer. On your first appointment, the doctor discusses the outcomes of the tests with you and asks you what you would like to see as a result of your therapy.”

“Sound reasonable.”

“We like to think so.” She goes quiet for a few seconds, before asking, “Anything else you’d like to know?”

“When can the doctor see me?” he says before he can lose his courage.

“Next week Tuesday, there’s a testing assistant in at 10?” He can hear the clattering of the keyboard. “The doctor could see you at 1:30?”

“That’s fine, I’ll be there.”

She takes his personal information, informs him about the prices, and points him to the appropriate forms for dealing with insurance. An hour later, he receives a confirmation in his email.

 

Tuesday morning, he showers and picks out his clothes with extra care to convey an image of a person in control of his life. Utterly unlike how he feels. He drives to the therapist’s address, and arrives with plenty of time to find a parking space. He enters the building, driving his nails into his palms in the pockets of his jacket. He tries to smile politely at the receptionist, who looks up at him and asks for his name.

“Derek Hale. I was supposed to be here at ten, but I’m a little early.”

She peers at the computer screen and nods in confirmation.

“Take a seat,” she says. “I’ll let Chelsea know you’re here.”

He sits down and tries not to fidget as the receptionist calls Chelsea, who he assumes is the testing assistant. He tries and fails not to listen for where Chelsea is in the building and tries to block out the weird, tense scents in the waiting room. He remembers not to get up before Chelsea has opened the door. She turns out to be a short black woman, with a no-nonsense attitude Derek approves of.

“Mr. Hale?”  she asks.

“Yes. The testing assistant?”

“Call me Chelsea. Follow me please?”

 

She leads him to a small room, furnished sparingly with a table facing the wall. On the table is a computer monitor, with its chassis standing on the floor. In the right hand corner is a comfortable chair, with a magazine on the elbow rest.

“Are you comfortable using a computer?” she asks.

“I do alright, I guess.”

“Okay, there is going to be a very long series of questions. Don’t think too long about it, but remember: the test is as truthful as your answers.”

“And if nothing fits?” Derek asks.

“Get as close to the truth as you can. The test are just a starting point.”

He nods and takes a seat.

“Would you like coffee, tea, or water?” she asks.

“Some water is fine.” He looks up: “Wait, was that a test?”

She smiles at him: “No, this was just a question. Unless you’re asking for water because you don’t want me to go to the trouble of making coffee.”

He looks puzzled, and she grins at his confusion. “No, I really do think I want water,” he says eventually.

“I’ll be back in a bit. You can start entering your data so we can start.” She leaves the room. Derek starts entering his full name, date of birth, frowning because he gave that information already. He tells Chelsea this when she returns with a large glass of water and a cup of coffee.

“I know. But we don’t want this computer tied to the network.”

“Why not?”

“Are you sure you want to hear me rant about privacy?”

“I’ll take your word for it.” He takes a sip. “It’s still annoying though.”

“Ready to start?”

“Sure.”

She opens the first program for him, and sits down in the armchair and opens the magazine. He answers questions about hallucinations - “seeing or hearing things other people do not see or hear” - about anxiety and what he assumes must be mania. The next series is a series of ‘choose your response’ from two options to various situations, varying from unhelpful people on a helpline, the coffee shop messing up an order to a stranger touching you. (he shivers a little at that one, glances up quickly to check if Chelsea saw his response, but her heart rate remains stable, betraying nothing.) The final set seems to be a gauge of how he thinks of himself.

When he finishes, he looks up at Chelsea and gestures at the screen: “I think I’m done.”

She gets up and prints the results.

“Shouldn’t you save those somewhere?”

“We have an excellent filing system,” she evades the question. “I’ll make sure doctor Skinner gets these before she sees you.”

“Thanks. I guess I’m done for now?”

“Yes. Let me walk you out.”

 

She guides him out of the building. It’s almost eleven in the morning, so he decides to do the groceries and run a few errands before returning to the psychologist’s office. He finds a small diner where he gets lunch and he returns to the office with ten minutes to spare before his appointment. The receptionist lets the doctor know he’s there, and five minutes later the doctor appears.

“Mr. Hale?”

He gets up, and takes doctor Skinner’s hand. “Derek Hale.”

“Elizabeth Skinner.”

He follows her into the treatment room. He expected a stuffy room, with a stuffy chaise longue, and a bust of Freud on a shelf. Instead, it is an orangery, overlooking a well-tended garden, with a small cabinet to the side, two chairs and even a chaise longue. The chaise makes him grin a little in spite of himself -it just feels almost too much like a movie cliche. She catches his smile and follows direction of his look.

“Should I lie down?” he asks, waving at the the chaise.

“You don’t have to, just make yourself comfortable. Sometimes it helps if you don’t have to maintain eye contact.” she says. He lies down, stretching his legs on the chaise, looking at the garden and seeing if he can spot any birds.

“So, what brings you here?”

“I thought you could tell from the test results,” he says gruffly.

Undeterred, she replies, “The tests are one indicator or how you are doing. What I am looking for is your own assessment of your situation, and what you’d like to achieve.”

He spots what he thinks is a Townsend’s Solitaire, but it’s flown away before he can be sure. He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been… consulting for the sheriff. As a werewolf. He let slip I could be a deputy if I see a therapist.”

“And why do you think that is?”

He goes quiet, considering his possible answers. He settles on a careful: “Checkered past?” After a beat, he adds: “How much do you know about the Hale family?”

“Talia Hale was the highly regarded alpha of the Hale pack, that had protected these lands for generations. Most of the pack died in a fire. It was deemed an accident, but I’m pretty sure the Argents were behind it, given how fast they left the county.”

“That was my fault.” He feels a lump his throat, and tries to swallow it away. Damn it, he will not start crying in his first session. He tries to distract himself by looking for the Solitaire again. Why doesn’t she say anything? The bird is not there.

“How old were you at that time?”

Derek frowns at the non-sequitur. “I was about to turn sixteen.”

“Were you at home when it happened?” the therapist asks, carefully neutral.

“No, I had basketball practice.” He swallows down another lump: “Laura had detention.”

“Laura is your sister?”

He nods, not bothering to correct the tense.

“How was that your fault then?”

“Kate Argent knew how to get into the house, because I showed her.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought we were star-crossed lovers.”

“She abused your trust?” Elizabeth suggests.

“I was stupid.” He hunches his shoulders, awaiting his punishment.

“You trusted her. She took advantage of that.”

“No, I was stupid. I should have seen her for what she was.”

“What was she?”

“A hunter.” he spits out the words.

“Someone who treats other people like prey, looks for vulnerable spots, and tries to break them apart from the pack?”

He sits up and turns to face her, squinting. “That sounds exactly like her. Have you met her?”

She looks at him with soft eyes: “No, I’m glad to say I haven’t. But I’m a therapist. These are classic abuse tactics.”

He turns back to lie down and look outside, and grits out: “I’m not a victim.”

“You’re a survivor.”

He has no idea what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what comes from your test results, too.” she says, weirdly sounding a little satisfied.

“Why does that make you happy?” he asks gruffly.

“It makes me sad for you, but happy professionally, because I think I know where to start. But I want your opinion first. What would you like to see differently in your life?”

My family back, is his first thought, and then, someone to hold would be nice. Sleeping a solid night for a week without nightmares would be nice.

“I guess… I have nightmares. Is there a way to deal with that? I mean, you can’t control your dreams, right?”

“There are two things there: I think your anxiety level is relatively high, and some of that seeps into your dreams. So, we can work on your anxiety. There are some techniques that can help you control or alter your dreams. How does that sound?”

“As good a place as any.” he says eventually.

“Good, because we are almost out of time. Unless there is something you need to tell me right away now.”

She actually waits half a minute for him to answer that question.

“Okay, then this is your homework. Think of something you do, or used to do, simply because you like to do it. I don’t care if it’s legos or baking bread, or some kind of sport. It does not have to involve other people; in fact, it’s probably better if it doesn’t. Before your next appointment, I’d like you to take each and any preparation to do that. So if you want to go fishing, you might want to look for a new fishing rod, or if knitting is your thing, buy the most pleasant yarn you can find.”

“Something I like to do? That’s it?”

“That’s all. Now, Marcia at the reception will book your new appointment. I’d say once a week the first four weeks, and we slow down the pace after that?”

Derek nods, and gets up. He shakes her hand and says goodbye. He leaves the room, and books his first real appointment.

 

Outside, he leaves the car for the moment. He wants to clear his head, so he walks, aimlessly, through Beacon Hills. His feet end up taking him to a book shop. Do something fun, he hears his new assignment ring in his ears. So he steps inside and inhales the scent of fresh books. He browses the shelves, looking for something that speaks to him.

“Just for fun,” he mutters to himself, returning The Name of the Rose to the shelf. He ends up with a thriller from an author he never heard of, mostly for the tasteful cover art. He buys a paperback, and decides he might as well start reading it. He crosses the street to a cafe, Una Volta it says on the window. He walks in, takes a look around and takes a seat in a corner away from the street. There is nobody behind the counter, but he can hear noises in the back. He opens his books and starts reading, assuming a waiter will show up at some point.

 

He is completely engrossed in the story when the waiter does turn up, coughing politely and holding up a digital notepad.

“Can I get you anything?” the waiter asks.

“Coffee,” he says automatically, and then corrects: “No wait, do you happen to have jasmine tea?”

“We do,” the man says brightly, “A cup or a pot?”

“A pot.” Because, screw it, he is doing his homework thoroughly today.

“Anything to go with that? We have gorgeous cardamom rolls, or basic apple pie. Though I wouldn’t recommend that with jasmine tea, if I’m honest.”

“Just tea for me, please.” Derek tries to smile pleasantly.

“Coming right up.” The man smiles back at him and leaves for the counter. Now that his focus has been shot, Derek can’t really concentrate on his book and watches the man prepare a pot of tea: boiling the water, picking up a glass tea pot from a shelf, and rinsing the teapot with the boiling water. He leaves the kettle open, and measures the tea into a strainer. He picks up a tray that he puts on the counter, adding porcelain tea cup and a small sugar pot and three cookies. The man looks up and sees him staring. He smiles proudly as he pours the water into the teapot. He puts the lid on, adds it to the tray and walks around the counter to bring it over.

“Thanks,” Derek says.

“The biscotti are an experiment, let me know what you think.”

“Will do.”

The server tilts his head to see what he’s reading, and smiles when he recognises the title. “Good choice, I’ll leave you to it.”

Derek takes out the tea strainer, and pours himself a cup. It is delicious. He dunks in one of the cookies. That works great too.

 

It becomes sort of a routine: Tuesday early afternoon session, and then either directly to Una Volta, or the bookstore. In the first appointment, his therapist had asked about his nightmares, and explained how he could alter the storyline of his dreams. He thought it was silly to use a spell from Harry Potter, but on Thursday night it had helped him fall back to sleep. The next week they had focused on relaxation techniques, developing an anchor to something positive. The third week, they had discussed some of his personal history, and looked forward to what he wanted out of the rest of his life. On his way to Una Volta, he realises that he has slept through most of the night of the last ten days, and that his control is better. After his third visit he is on first name basis with Tony. If it’s busy, he reads, when it’s not, they usually talk for a bit about books or movies or trade some local gossip -though in fairness, that’s mostly Tony. He mentions it to doctor Skinner, who tells him he is doing a great job. He is stretched out on the chaise, looking at the garden. He still finds it easier to talk that way.

“You know what’s strange though?” he says. “He is gorgeous, ticks all of my boxes: funny, nice, well-read. And I still don’t want to… do anything.” His voice tapers off slightly. “I mean, I can imagine sort of doing things together, but not… you know, together-together? I thought I was getting better, but that part of me is still not working.”

“Are you referring to intimacy or sex?”

“Isn’t that kind of the same thing?”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because… I don’t know, isn’t that what people do?”

“Is what what people do?”

He gestures with his hand, “You know, fall in love, date, have sex, settle.” He almost adds “grown-up stuff” but stops himself just in time.

“Some people have sex without being in love, though.” doctor Skinner says.

“But that’s kinda frowned upon, though. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

“You didn’t hook up in New York?”

“No, not really. It’s… I was still so messed up.”

“I’m sure you got your share of offers.”

He huffs a little: “None of them interesting.”

“So what is interesting?”

“Aren’t you supposed to have answers here?”

“Is that what you think I do?”

He sits up and turns to face her: “Now you’re just messing with me.”

“A little,” she admits. “But I’m really not in the business of telling you what to do or feel. I’m here to help you figure out your own answers. And if sex is not one of your answers, that’s important progress.”

“Everybody wants to have sex. I just don’t because I’m broken.”

“Why would you think so?”

“Biological imperative?”

“Do you want to? Honestly?”

He thinks about that, and then says: “Not really. No.”

“There you are then.”

“You mean I’m still broken? Physically, everything works. I just… don’t really want to?”

“I suspect you’re asexual or possibly demisexual, someone who only experiences physical attraction when there is an emotional connection.”

“That’s a thing?”

“It is. Does that fit your experience?”

He frowns as he tries to process it. “Okay, here’s the bad.” he says. “I have no idea.”

She tilts her head, to invite elaborations.

“With Paige, I was really young, so we didn’t… do much. With Kate everything went too fast. I never really had the time to figure out what I wanted, I just knew what I was supposed to want. With Jennifer, I was spelled. So I have no real frame of reference here.”

Doctor Skinner looks at him thoughtfully and then nods. “Okay, you get a new assignment for this week. I want you to look up a couple of things on the internet. And because I’m nice about it, you’ll be getting a cheat sheet to start you off.”

He watches, slightly worried, as she walks over to the cabinet, and opens a drawer. She gets out a sheet and hands it to him. It contains a list of web addresses.

“I’d like for you to go over a couple of these websites, and next week, we’ll discuss your findingings.”

He looks at the sheet dubiously, shrugs and says “Sure.”

“I think that’s all we have time for today. Next week, same time?”

He gets up, shakes her hand and leaves the room.

 

He goes to Una Volta, but he can’t really focus on his book. He puts it aside and studies Tony instead. Well, not so much Tony as much as his own response to Tony. Wrapping arms around him, chin on his shoulder? Yes. Waking up on Tuesday morning? Yes. Kissing? His lips curl unhappily. He doesn’t imagine any further. He decides to leave early and do his homework.

 

An hour or so into his mandatory websurfing, he sends an email to his therapist.

 

_Dear doctor Skinner,_

_I’ve started my assignment for this week, and I’m just dropping a line to say thank you. Yes, this fits._

_I look forward to discussing it further next week._

_Kind regards,_

_Derek Hale_

_patient number 93708_

 

The following morning, he checks his mail and sees a reply.

 

_Dear Derek,_

_My mother was an avid jam maker, and she labelled every experiment. She once said that the labels on jars are not required but it can help in finding the right combination. I think that goes for people too._

_See you Tuesday,_

_Elizabeth Skinner_

 

For the moment, he is happy to have found a label that fits. Now, he decides, it’s time to find a combination of ingredients for his life that work with it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Endnotes: he’s reading Robert Galbraith’s The Cuckoo’s Calling, which is a pretty good book. I’m pretty sure I’ll write another part or two for this story. I’m on tumblr as hedwig-dordt, if you want to say hi.


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